NOVEL FROG Cavern Exile: Beginning of the Counterattack
The dwarven army marches double-time. The stalagmites echo with the tramp of steel and the grim timbre of war songs. Vanerak ordered the ballistae dropped at the beginning of the march, for he judged them little use in street fighting, and without the massive weapons slowing them down the march back to the city progresses much faster than the dragon chase did.
It is propelled partly by fear for families and friends, but mostly by black rage. It’s a filthy trick, what Broderick pulled. The black dragon was a threat to all dwarves equally, and to use the hunt as an opportunity to attack was nothing but disgusting.
The army reaches the city in little under a month and sets up camp in a series of shallow caves just outside. On the second night, after all has been organized—latrine caves decided, living quarters established, defensive perimeter set—the higher ranking dwarves are called to battle-council.
He’s chosen this cave well, Guildmaster Wharoth thinks to himself. There’s only two entrances and they’re tough to squeeze through. It’s thick with low, sharp stalagmites, a natural barrier to intruding warriors. There’s even a small river running down the center both for fresh water and to work as a further barrier to any potential decapitation force.
A tungsten-clad runeknight shows him to his place in the circle. Once everyone is here—a few dozen only, likely far fewer than the number of elites Broderick has—Vanerak begins his briefing.
“First, I should make clear a matter we are all worried about: there has been no news of the Runethane’s whereabouts or wellbeing.”
There is stony silence.
“However Broderick has been seen many times. It follows that we must assume he defeated our Runethane, who is likely now dead or captured.”
The tone of his voice is cold and even. The gathered runeknights nod grimly.
“Now to the main topic of discussion. No forces have yet sallied out to meet us, but of course we have been scouted. They know where we are and could attack if they wished.”
“Are there no forces being mustered under the city?” asks a bronze-clad second degree. Trazloth, guildmaster of the Troglodyte Slayers. “These tunnels we’re in are well-linked.”
“Scouting parties will be sent out to confirm with confidence, however my elites on their preliminary forays saw no evidence of any underground mustering. Personally, I do not believe they will sally forth. They have no reason to. We are the attackers, and they would prefer we were forced to assault up the mountain.”
“The mountain?” another guildmaster says. “But they hold the whole city.”
“Now they do, but they cannot hold it against us. We are a fresh army, more or less, and they are not. The battle, so the few who escaped tell me, was far from a one-sided affair.”
Wharoth speaks up: “Even so, they will have looted the castle stores and industrial districts, and the lower degrees at least have had enough time to improve their equipment a good deal.”
“This is true. However, should Broderick pick a fight in the city, the citizenry can assist us and sabotage them. No. They will be forced to defend at the castle.”
“It will be a hard fight,” Trazloth says. “I do not like uphill battles. It is always best to hold the higher ledges.”
“I agree. And when my plan succeeds, we will hold them...”
Wharoth leads the Association of Steel through the dark streets. They walk in tight formation, weapons held ready to slay. Ten minutes ago they crawled from an unguarded tunnel, unspotted, directed by two tungsten clad elites accompanying them.
Vanerak’s plan is a clever one in theory, but Wharoth wonders how well it will turn out in practice.
The army has split into squads of twenty or so each. They will now travel through the streets and attack any troop concentrations Broderick has stationed throughout the city. So many attacks at once with no warning will cause a panic—the enemy likely expects them to come as one concentrated force. They will retreat to the most defensible position: the castle, so that the second stage can commence.
It’s gone without a hitch so far. Vanerak and his elites knew the layout of the city caves well enough to find twenty lesser known tunnels—although they were a damn tight squeeze in a few places. Most of Broderick’s troops are stationed near the city perimeter, and several of his scout groups met violent ends yesterday, and thus his military intelligence is much diminished. They met no one in the tunnels.
So far so simple. Plans always are up until they hit the enemy.
The streets are deserted in this district. This is no surprise: this block of smelteries suffered a massive fire during the battle for the city. The blackened frames of the buildings stink of charcoal and acrid coke. A crust of ash crunches under the dwarves’ boots.
Shouting in the distance announces first contact, and Wharoth tightens his grip on his axe and bares his teeth behind his visor. Today he feels uncharacteristically bloodthirsty. Today is a day to split limbs and skulls, to cut and rend, to kill.
it is because of Broderick and his greedy soldiers that so many of the Association of Steel died broken-hearted. Because of them, the dragon that burned so many is still loose, alive and licking its wounds to kill again another day. Because of them, his guild does not have its revenge.
The Association of Steel will give no quarter. Take no prisoners. Show not one jot of mercy, not even to the youngest tenth degree.
Ten minutes after the first shouts go up, further ones rise closer.
Another few minutes pass, more erupt, and are soon followed by the tinny blare of alarms:
“Raid! Raid! Raid!” scream rune-grafted cones of tin. “Raid! Raid! Raid!”
“We’ll be on them soon,” one of the tungsten clad elites says. “Get ready to spill some blood.”
“We are,” Wharoth spits.
The elite flinches. Wharoth is slightly surprised by the contempt in his own voice.
They turn down a narrow alleyway. Its end is brightly lit by a streetlamp, then shadows blink as column of troops runs past. Wharoth recalls that there’s another squad near here—the enemy must be rushing for them.
“Charge!” Wharoth screams.
He hurtles down the alley with shield held out in front and titanium axe raised above his head. The vague dark pattern of bricks blurs at either side, then he’s crashing into the column like a spear suddenly thrust into an opponent’s ribs.
He shield-slams a dwarf who goes flying and crumples into a wall across the cobbled road. The one behind him skids to a halt and Wharoth’s axe is already seeking her neck. The young soldier looks to be barely a tenth degree, clad in thick yet badly forged steel, and the titanium blade cuts right through the gorget.
Her head comes off, and before it hits the ground the rest of the Association of Steel is already cutting into the column, screaming like hellions as they let loose with axe, sword, hammer and spear. Enemy armor tears and enemy blood fountains.
“Lead them up!” he orders Gerthel. “The elites and I will take those down the street.”
The front section of the enemy column has rushed away and already formed an ordered line. They are well commanded, it seems—Wharoth sees their captain in the middle of the line, a runeknight of third or second degree in elegant platinum. He is armed with a long spear, black at the tip, a bit like Zathar’s weapon.
What has become of that strange young dwarf? The thought distracts him only for a moment and then Wharoth is launching himself down the road alongside the two tungsten elites.
They smash the line at three points, Wharoth in the middle and the elites at the flanks. Wharoth deflects the captain's black spear with the edge of his shield and cuts down at his legs. The captain responds by stepping back out of range with unnatural quickness while striking hard. The blow hits Wharoth’s shield straight on and the hammer-strong impact halts him. Now the captain is deep into his line of soldiers, who converge on Wharoth.
They are no match for the guildmaster. Wharoth’s titanium axe whirs through the air in wide loops, slicing through lesser steel blades and shafts. Their attacking power broken, his loops extend further to reach head and belly. Armor is split open.
Those lucky enough not to have blood pouring from steel rents toward the not-halat rune suddenly realize that their flanks have vanished. The tungsten elites did their job with brutal precision: every enemy on the left and right is either dead or fleeing.
The center flees too. Only their captain remains.
“Not going to run?” Wharoth asks him. “I would, if I were you.”
“Broderick’s dwarves do not run,” the captain snaps back.
He lets loose a flurry of stabs. Wharoth knows how to counter such an attack—he shield-charges to break his opponent's rhythm and run him down. The dwarf sidesteps and strikes at his head. Wharoth ducks just enough to let the black blade scrape on his helmet, then delivers a vicious cut to his opponent’s hand.
The captain jumps backward obscenely quickly—his runes of speed are nothing to laugh at.
But he did not pay attention to the battlefield. One of the elites’ halberds pierces his back; its spike comes out through the center left of the captain’s chest. Blood streams down his platinum plate, the black spear clatters to the cobbles and begins to roll down the slope of the road, and then the halberd is withdrawn and he collapses. Blood pours down the cobbles.
Wharoth looks up the street and sees the other half of the enemy column scattering away, Association of Steel in close pursuit.
“Halt!” he shouts to them. “Don’t get carried away! We regroup, then move up the mountain with the rest!”
The real battle has not yet begun.